


Mac and Charlie Get High

by lilkittenmitton



Category: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
Genre: Dennis and Dee are there too but minimally, Drug Use, Hand Jobs, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Slurs, pretty much just mac and charlie are cute yeah, teen mac and charlie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-19
Updated: 2014-03-19
Packaged: 2018-01-16 07:07:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1336534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilkittenmitton/pseuds/lilkittenmitton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charlie and Mac like drinking and huffing shit, and kissing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mac and Charlie Get High

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place in their senior year of high school, so they're seventeen or eighteen.

When he was seven, Charlie played little league hockey for a season. He was a decent player; he could skate well and had okay aim for a seven year old, but he got knocked around a lot because he was so small. He got some pretty cool looking bruises after getting elbowed in the mouth at a game once. When he showed up to school like that, he not only had to explain to his teacher what had happened, but also to his worried best friend, Mac. Mac admitted that Charlie looked cool, but told him that he’d go to his next game so he could look out for trouble.

So that weekend, Mac went with Charlie on the bus that took the team to the ice rink. No one seemed to mind that Charlie’s friend sat on the bench during the game with the coaches and other players, cheering on the team.

Charlie was doing his best to skate extra well, and was trying really hard to score a goal to impress Mac. Finally, in the third quarter, he got his chance. The puck slid right over to him, and he hit it as hard as he could towards the goal. Fortunately, the goalie wasn’t standing anywhere near the goal, and the puck went in. When he realized that he totally just made a slap shot, he whipped his head around to catch Mac’s eye. Mac waved excitedly, jumping up and down a little. Charlie raised his hand to wave back, and got knocked over by a kid on the other team. He recognized the kid from school; he was a grade ahead of them.

When the game ended ten minutes later, Charlie hurried over to his friend. “Mac! Mac did you see my slap shot?”

Mac high fived him. “Yeah, dude! That was awesome. But I’m gonna beat up Shawn at school tomorrow.”

- 

Charlie’s favorite day, besides Saturday, is Tuesday. On Tuesdays Mac and Charlie skip their last class of the day to hang out under the bleachers. Mac never says anything about it to Dennis, just in case he’d want to skip with them. Charlie loves that it feels like a secret, that no one knows they stand under the bleachers every week, talking shit and talking about the Phillies and about the Flyers and about which actors would play them if their lives were made into a blockbuster action movie.

This particular Tuesday is quiet and cold and content. They stand facing the snowy field with their hands shoved in their jacket pockets, thinking about the fast approaching holidays.

“What about eggnog and rum?” Charlie asks, breaking the silence.

“Sounds awesome, dude,” Mac grins. Charlie smiles at the thought of getting eggnog and rum wasted with Mac.

They fall silent again, content with watching the snow twirl down from the sky and slowly collect on the metal bleachers in front of them. The snow makes everything feel hushed, and slow. Charlie feels like he’s watching his life on a muted television.

“Doesn’t the snow feel like everything is on mute?” He’s spacing out on some faraway spot on the field, his vision going out of focus.

A couple minutes pass without Mac making any indication he had heard. “I guess, man,” he eventually says. “It’s quiet.” Mac’s voice seemed almost out of place and Charlie blinks a couple times to snap himself out of his snow-induced trance. He looks over at Mac, who’s squinting a little, also stuck in his own head. His eyebrows are making that V-shape that Charlie secretly adores. He cant help but think that Mac looks very cute like that, hunched in on himself just a bit, squinting at something in his thoughts.

Charlie blames the mute-feeling for making him act on impulse—he takes his hand out of his jacket pocket and stuffs it into Mac’s, trying to hold his friend’s hand. Mac’s hand is curled up in a fist because of the cold, so it doesn’t work very well, but he also doesn’t stop him like Charlie thought he might. Mac doesn’t actually do anything, and Charlie wonders if Mac’s brain had paused like Charlie’s sometimes did, and that maybe he doesn’t even know Charlie’s hand is sharing his pocket. But when he looks up at Mac again, he notices his neck and cheeks look distinctly pinker than they had a minute ago. 

A small smile makes its way onto Mac’s face, and he takes his hand out of his pocket to lace his fingers through Charlie’s. Charlie’s heart speeds up and all he can do is look at the ground and grin stupidly. He knows that if he makes any sudden movements it could shatter the snow-quiet feeling and Mac would back off, so he tries to be as still as he can. 

They’ve held hands before, during special moments, and Charlie remembers each time; it only happened when they were young or incredibly drunk. Sometimes Mac would put his arm around Charlie’s shoulders when they walked through the alleys looking for shit to bash or set on fire. But kissing—no, they’d never kissed, except for that one time when Mac kissed Charlie on the cheek when they were twelve, but no, never, not since then. But now, suddenly, Mac lets go of his hand and pushes him up against the metal support beams. He’s kissing him hard and Charlie’s head spins with the smell of Mac. He kisses him back the best he knows how, and brings a hand up to feel Mac’s hair (it’s soft, like a silk bathrobe) and feels Mac’s hand at his hip and the other at his neck. Charlie opens his eyes for a second and he can only see Mac’s eyelashes and the crease between his eyebrows. Mac tastes like Tuesday and the cigarette he smoked at lunch. 

Charlie pulls back a little. “Mac. Mac,” he breathes.

Mac sounds irritated. “What, Charlie?” He presses a few kisses against Charlie’s neck instead.

“Do you remember when you used to come to my hockey games?” He is panting slightly.

Mac cocks his head and makes an impatient noise. “Yeah?” he huffs, scowling at bit. 

Charlie looks down at Mac’s chest, suddenly shy. “Let’s—let’s go to the ice rink they put up for Christmas,” he mumbles.

When he looks back up at Mac, he realizes he ruined the moment, he always ruins the moment—he sees Mac’s eyes go hard and distant and Charlie’s chest tightens a little. Mac drops his hands from where they were resting on Charlie’s hips and takes a step back. “That’s gay, dude,” resolutely ignoring the fact that just moments ago he was grinding his dick against Charlie’s through their jeans. “I’m not going on a faggot date to the ice rink.” He doesn’t look at Charlie. 

Charlie shrugs like he doesn’t care either way. “Whatever.” He keeps his face neutral but he feels like Mac just punched him. A few moments pass, and they avoid looking at each other. Charlie’s still got an uncomfortable hard-on in his jeans. He peeks at Mac—yup.

Mac turns and starts walking away. Charlie isn’t sure if he should follow or just wait around to walk home alone, but Mac stops and throws an impatient look at Charlie over his shoulder. “C’mon,” he says. They walk home.

 

A few days later, on the Friday before school let out, Mac, Charlie, and Dennis are hanging around the bleachers. Mac had barely said a word to him in the past few days. They stand around Dennis, listening to him go on about banging some girl. Charlie wonders if Dennis ever banged any of the girls he says he banged. Charlie isn’t actually interested, though, at least not as much as Mac seems to be—but Charlie can tell he’s over doing it. He rolls his eyes when Mac laughs too loudly at Dennis’ stories, like he actually believes they’re real and not born from his narcissistic fantasies. He plays along anyways, laughing whenever Mac laughs, even though hearing him talk about girls like that makes his stomach twist. Charlie imagines that his stomach is leaking tar into his bloodstream.

He shivers, only wearing a ratty sweatshirt over one of Mac’s long sleeve shirts even though there’s snow on the ground. Dennis is still talking, but it sounds faraway to Charlie. He tries to ignore the dull pain in his chest as he blankly stares at the spot just a few feet away where Mac had kissed him. He wishes he was high.

 

Later, they steal beer from the convenient store on the corner and retreat to Dennis’ place to get smashed. They pass Dee in the living room and they all yell bird-related insults at her. Mac throws in an aluminum monster joke, just because they know it gets to her. She looks absolutely offended, even genuinely hurt, but she follows them up the stairs anyway.

Being drunk takes away the aching parts, makes him forget he feels a bit empty. He laughs at Dennis and Dee being assholes to each other and at Mac acting tough. Mac thinks he’s such a badass when he’s drunk. He kind of is, though. Everyone’s happy about the holidays; they finish off the two six-packs they stole as the night goes on, along with some vodka taken from Dennis’ mom.

It’s just past two when Charlie starts to feel tired. He looks at Mac, resting against the foot of the bed, smiling a droopy, tired smile. Charlie’s sitting across from him, leaning back on his hands. He stretches his legs out and nudges Mac with his foot, trying to signal to him that he wanted to go home and pass out. Mac and Charlie didn’t like passing out at Dennis’ place because they always ended up sleeping on the floor, and the next morning everything seemed too bright and looked too expensive. But, more importantly, Charlie wants to leave because he knows they’ll just go to Mac’s, and he loves the smell of the quilts on Mac’s bed.

“Hey, jerkoffs,” Mac says, standing up. He puts his hand on Charlie’s shoulder for balance when he bends down to pick up his coat from the floor. “We’re gonna go.” Charlie stands up too and pulls down the hem of his sweatshirt. He sways slightly. 

Dennis and Dee are still sitting on the bed, laughing uproariously about some girl they refer to as Snail. “Later, boners,” Dee says, not really paying attention to them.

“Shut up, bird,” Dennis tells his sister. He turns to Mac and Charlie. “Meet at the corner?”

“Yeah, man,” Mac agrees.

“Later,” Charlie says over his shoulder. They stomp down the stairs, completely unaware of how much noise they’re making, and leave through the front door. It’s fucking cold out, and Charlie sucks in a breath when the chill goes right through his sweatshirt. Luckily the walk to Mac’s place wont take too long if they hurry.

“Charlie, are you fucking stupid? It’s like 20 degrees out! Where the fuck is your coat?” Mac yells, apparently forgetting that Charlie hadn’t been wearing one all day.

Charlie straightens up and tries to seem indifferent, even though he is clearly shivering. “It’s not that bad, dude.”

Mac looks absolutely fed up. He takes off his coat and shoves it at Charlie. “You’re gonna get sick, or something, and I don’t wanna deal with that.” His words slur just a bit.

“But, now you—you don’t have—” Charlie starts, but Mac cuts him off.

“Put on the fucking jacket, Charlie.” Charlie complies, knowing there’s no way he could change Mac’s mind.

“Thanks, man.” 

“Whatever, dude. Let’s go,” Mac says impatiently, now only wearing a black hoodie over his t-shirt that he’d cut the sleeves off of. He’s already walking down the street towards South Philly, and Charlie has to jog a couple paces to catch up.

There are plenty of streetlights in Dennis and Dee’s neighborhood (there aren’t as many where Mac and Charlie live), and Charlie likes watching their shadows stretch when they walk under one. As soon as they turn the corner, Mac grabs Charlie’s hand in his pocket like Charlie had done. Charlie starts to giggle and he trips a little bit over his own foot. “Shut up, Charlie,” Mac says. Charlie shuts up, but squeezes Mac’s hand. The yellow-orange light washes over them, and Charlie looks sideways at his friend. His heart stutters and swoops—Mac is smiling so wide, and he’s definitely blushing, and it’s the best thing Charlie has ever seen in his entire life.

 

Mac’s house looked so welcoming to Charlie when they finally walk up the front path, even though it probably looked dark and unsafe to anyone else. They stumble inside and go straight to Mac’s room, kicking off their boots and taking off their pants, almost falling on their faces. Charlie shrugs off Mac’s coat and drags himself to the bed.

He climbs in and folds himself between the heavy winter quilts that smell like pine trees, somehow, and Charlie doesn’t think there is a more comforting smell in the whole world. He feels the bed dip as Mac gets in after him. They’ve slept in the same bed together loads of times, and sure, sometimes they’d wake up closer to each other than they were when they fell asleep—but now that he and Mac had definitely crossed a line together and were now walking around in uncharted gay territory, he isn’t sure anymore what the rules are about sleeping in Mac’s bed. He doesn’t quite know what might be too gay for Mac, and he doesn’t want to do anything that would cause Mac to stop talking to him for another couple of days. Even though they have literally never talked about it, he knows Mac is ashamed of being a fag—maybe because he thinks God would hate him, but mainly because faggots are weak. Mac isn’t weak, though. Mac is a badass who once broke a kid’s nose in seventh grade because he called Charlie a retard.

Charlie is just about to say fuck it all and cuddle the shit out of Mac when he hears him shift. He holds his breath, waiting to see if he was just turning over or if maybe he’d, maybe—and then he feels Mac pressed up against his back in a distinctly gay way, his arm is hugging Charlie’s chest somewhat possessively. They don’t say anything, and fall asleep within minutes.

 

Charlie wakes up around twelve to one hell of a headache and immediately squeezes his eyes shut tighter. He feels like shit; his head is throbbing. He tries to focus on the weight of the heavy quilts on top of him. He realizes, slowly, that it isn’t just the winter quilts that he feels; Mac’s arm is still draped over him.

Life is unfair though, because he has to pee so much. He tries to slip out from under Mac’s arm and out of the bed to the bathroom down the hall as quietly as possible, but he trips on Mac’s boot by the door and bangs his knee on the doorframe. He looks back to the bed to make sure Mac is still sleeping, but he’s not—he’s half-sitting up, resting against the headboard. He starts to laugh when Charlie peeks at him over his shoulder. “Are you still drunk, dude? Or did you forget how to walk?” he says. 

“Shut up! You left your shoes everywhere!”

“So did you!” Mac says, indignant, gesturing to Charlie’s shit on the floor.

This is clearly true, but he throws his hands up like it isn’t. “Your shoes are bigger,” is the only thing he comes up with. Mac just scrunches his eyebrows together as a response, waiting for Charlie to say something else. He doesn’t, because he really has to piss, and because when Mac makes that face he cant think of anything besides the fact that Mac is only wearing boxers. He turns around too quickly and is punished with more throbbing behind his eyes.

After he finishes in the bathroom, he flops onto the foot of the bed with a groan. Mac kicks him a little from under the covers. “I’m hungry as shit, dude.”

Food. Yes. “Me too.” Charlie turns onto his back.

They don’t make any move to get up though, until Charlie’s stomach grumbles. Mac nudges him with his foot again and gets out of bed, pulling on his favorite blue pants that he’d left on the floor. Charlie tries not to stare. Mac walks out of the room and Charlie listens to the sound of his footsteps change as he moves from the carpet of the hallway to the tile of the kitchen. He lays in Mac’s bed for a few more minutes, staring at the ceiling and thinking about how he got to hold Mac’s hand last night. The whole memory is a little blurry, but he remembers how Mac looked under those orange street lights. He finally rolls off the bed, steps into his jeans, and shuffles down the hall.

Mac’s kitchen is small, housing only the essentials. Their fridge, shoved in the corner, is plain white; there are no magnets, shopping lists, or Polaroids adorning it. There’s a window, but the thin blue curtains are drawn as usual, giving everything a bluish tint. They prefer to keep them shut; enough light is let in so that turning on the lights is unnecessary, but everything is still pleasantly dim.

Mac is opening the fridge when Charlie walks in. “I’m gonna make some eggs,” he says.

“Sweet.” Mac’s hangover eggs n’ toast breakfast could probably cure cancer. Charlie felt pretty sure that any stupid science bitch would back that up. Every time they were hung over or had a particularly shitty night, Mac would make eggs and they’d let breakfast bury whatever bad thing they needed to bury. This morning, though, all that’s needed is a way to get rid of his goddamn headache. The four beers and three shots of vodka were awesome the night before, but now feel like hell.

Charlie puts plates on the small round table, moving aside an ashtray. The table is decorated with rings from where the wet bottoms of cans and mugs had eaten through the varnish. He’s pretty sure Mac doesn’t have coasters, and if he did, nobody gave enough of a shit to put them on the table. He pours them orange juice in coffee mugs, choosing the one that said _I Hate New Jersey_ for himself and the one that had the Phillies logo on it for Mac.

Mac finishes making the eggs and scrapes them onto their plates with some toast, and Charlie gets the delicious plastic-tasting cheese slices out of the fridge, putting them on his toast before piling on eggs. Mac comments that he looks ridiculous trying to shove that mountain of eggs in his mouth. Charlie tries to respond, but he cant really form any words around all the food.

Charlie hears something clicking on the tile, and sees Poppins running into the kitchen. “Poppins! Where have you been?” Mac picks up the dirty little dog and scratches his ear. “I haven’t seen him in weeks,” he says, turning to Charlie.

“That dog is totally a mutant, dude.”

“Poppins is just hardcore, Charlie.” Mac says, setting him back down. He tosses him some scraps, and they watch him scarf them down. Poppins retreats to the living room and Charlie wonders when he’ll see him next.

Over breakfast, they talk about the shit they always talk about, for the five hundredth time. Mac does bring up a new point, though, saying he could totally kick Dooley’s ass. Charlie doesn’t disagree; he could also probably kick Dooley’s ass, the kid was so burnt. Inevitably, Mac starts going on about his karate skills, getting all pumped up from the ass kicking discussions. Charlie decides he wont give him too much shit. He just rolls his eyes.

After a while, both of them are yawning. Around now is usually when Charlie fucks off to his own house and maybe huffs whatever’s laying around by himself. So he goes back to Mac’s room to put on his shoes, plopping on the floor to tie his laces. But Mac walks in after him, grabs his Docs, and sits down next to Charlie to put them on. Those boots really are badass—they found them in the locker room after school once, when Mac was dealing. They were his size and they figured the kid shouldn’t have left them sitting out in the open if he didn’t want someone to steal them. So they stole them.

They don’t say anything when Mac grabs his jacket and follows Charlie out of the house. This had always been the part when Mac would stay home and probably pick out the most heterosexual shirt to wear to go meet up with Dennis. Meanwhile, Charlie would think about meeting them at the corner too, but would always end up huffing glue or drinking some more to pass the time until he can show up at Mac’s later the next day. But here they are, walking to Charlie’s house together, because they’re bored, because Mac wouldn’t have asked Charlie to stay, because Mac didn’t want Charlie to leave, because it seems wrong to just separate now.

 

It’s a quick trip to Charlie’s place. They walk up the stoop and Mac hangs back while Charlie gets the key from under the mat and unlocks the door. They hurry inside.

Charlie’s house is warm, and always smells vaguely like vodka and cookies.

“Where’s your mom, dude?” Mac asks, finally breaking the silence. They hadn’t said a word since breakfast.

“Uh, work, I guess. Yeah. She works all Saturday, at, um,” Charlie realizes he’s not entirely sure. “At the restaurant place.” Probably. She never really says. He doesn’t care too much. Mac nods and flops down on the couch. Charlie is still standing in the middle of the room, too aware of the unspoken thing that’s going on between them. He knows it feels different, but he doesn’t want to act different. “Wanna, uh, watch TV or somethin?” That’s what they’d normally do, anyways.

“Sure, man, I don’t care.” Mac reaches to grab the remote. He settles on a rerun of Miami Vice after flipping through talk shows and other shit.

They sit on the couch together for a while, zoning out and not really paying attention to the show. Charlie figures he and Mac could get high together, since that’s also something they’d usually do. A commercial comes on, and Charlie stands up. “I think there’s some paint thinner around here somewhere,” he says.

Mac looks up at him and smirks. “What, dude? Why didn’t you say so?”

He just shrugs, and goes searching around in some cabinets. He finds the metal can shoved in the back, in the spot that he’d completely forgotten he put it after the last time he used it. He grabs a brown paper bag from the cabinet too, and a dirty rag from under the sink.

He sits back on the couch, pours a generous amount of paint thinner on the rag, and throws it in the bag. Mac is looking at him expectantly, so he brings the bag to his face and takes a deep breath and—oh, it’s so strong, he loves the smell, he really does. He already feels pleasantly dizzy. “Mac, this one’s good.” He hands the bag to Mac and watches his eyes close as he huffs it.

“Shit,” Mac says. Charlie takes the bag back and huffs some more. He loves that it goes straight to his brain—everything goes pink and orange in his head. He feels light; his thoughts are wavy and loose. He distantly registers that Miami Vice had come back on. Don Johnson is wearing a pink shirt under his white suit, and it makes Charlie smile. They wet the rag again, rather unnecessarily, and each do a few more—maybe too many, the acetone is pretty strong—but they are floating and smiling and laughing. Charlie realizes, through the haze of watercolors, that Mac is sitting too far away, so he drifts over to him, sitting very close. Mac’s face is rosy, and his hair is pushed back and floppy.

“This is—Charlie, this—” Mac struggles to find a word. He is grinning. “It’s awesome, dude.”

Charlie laughs. Mac’s right, it is awesome. It’s so awesome. They look each other in the eyes, and there’s a pause where the air seems to still, but Charlie’s head is still rushing. Mac raises his eyebrows, and oh, fuck everything, that is Charlie’s favorite thing that Mac does—so he climbs on top of Mac and kisses him, burying his hands in his hair.

Their mouths move against each other, and Mac wraps his arms around Charlie, pulling him in closer. His head is swimming. Charlie starts to kiss all over Mac’s cheeks and neck, loving that Mac is blushing pink like everything in his head. They’re both hard, and Charlie cant help himself—he paws at Mac’s dick through his pants. Mac inhales sharply. “Fuck, dude,” he murmurs. He does the same to Charlie, making him moan. Mac starts to unbutton Charlie’s jeans, but he falters, apparently too high to figure it out. They unbutton their own pants—much easier—and kick them off along with their boxers. They’re nearly out of their minds with wanting and paint thinner, so it doesn’t occur to them to take off their shirts as well.

Charlie starts to stroke Mac slowly, trying not to ruin anything. But Mac is impatient, and bossy. “C’mon, dude, faster. Faster, Charlie,” he breathes. He goes faster, and Mac is clutching at the back of Charlie’ shoulders. He barely lasts two minutes before he comes, pressing his face into Charlie’s chest. His head falls back against the couch, and he looks up at Charlie with droopy eyes. His pupils are blown so huge, and Charlie is entranced by it. “Oh, fuck, man, fuck,” Mac exhales. He kisses Charlie and reaches down between them, wrapping his hand around him. Charlie arches his back as Mac strokes him. Charlie’s absolutely blissed out on endorphins and dopamine and he is sure that there is nothing in the entire world that could be better than this, than Mac jacking him off while they’re high on acetone fumes. He comes and everything is fuzzy and bright, like an out of focus picture of downtown Philadelphia at night. After a moment, his vision refocuses and he sees Mac’s lopsided grin.

Charlie leans his head against Mac’s forehead, and they breathe together for a few moments. Everything is still spinning and nothing seems solid except for Mac underneath him. The theme song to Miami Vice plays, signaling the start of another episode. Charlie isn’t sure how far into the other episode they were when Mac first put it on. He realizes he has no idea how time works. He doesn’t care. He kisses Mac.

 

Later, Mac and Charlie lay side by side on Charlie’s bed upstairs, wearing their t-shirts and boxers. Charlie stares at the window behind Mac, watching the snow fall. There is a crack in the glass that he had covered with duct tape from when Mac was showcasing his karate moves and accidentally kicked the window a few years ago.

The high from huffing the paint thinner had long worn off, but Charlie still feels intoxicated—it probably has something to do with how Mac keeps kissing his neck. “Dude, so, I was thinking…” Mac sounds hesitant. “You know how hockey is really badass?”

“Duh. Hockey’s awesome.”

“Yeah. And, like, hockey players aren’t fags. And they ice skate. So, I was thinking, maybe we could go to the ice rink, if you still wanted. Since it’s not a faggot thing.” Mac’s cheeks are very red.

Charlie’s face lights up. “Yeah, dude! Mac, I’m telling you, it’s badass to ice skate.”

Mac rolls his eyes. “Hockey players are badass. Normal ice skating isn’t really that badass. But, whatever dude, if you wanna go…”

Charlie gives Mac his biggest smile and kisses him. “Hell yeah, dude.”


End file.
